Toxic
by Joodiff
Summary: She does it deliberately, and he can't help but react. Just pre-"Double Bind". Complete. T for language. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

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 **Toxic**

by Joodiff

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Burning with rage herself, Grace goads him quite deliberately, and while part of her exults in the dangerous, wanton thrill of it, another part is utterly appalled and mortified by her behaviour. The shame burns strongest not in _what_ she does, but in the hidden truth of exactly _why_ she does it. When things between them unfold like this, the aftermath is often bitterly remorseful, at least for her, and sometimes, just sometimes, she will give in and let the tears fall freely; if she does, his bewildered compassion never fails to gouge bleeding furrows across her heart. She has reluctantly accepted that it's not _his_ darkness but _hers_ that drives what inexorably happens on nights like this. The addiction – because that's what she suspects it is – is hers, not Boyd's. He is wild and he is angry, but at heart, where it really matters, there is no malice in him. Perhaps in that one small way he is a far nobler creature than she is. It doesn't matter. The first time was an accident, and she can forgive herself that. _Has_ forgiven herself that. The second time, too, perhaps, but that's where forgiveness runs out and bitter self-awareness really starts to bite.

She likes it. That's the inexcusable, base truth. Likes it, wants it; maybe even _needs_ it. Not his atavistic fury, but what can spring from it when the hour is late, the prying eyes are gone and she intentionally guides him down the dangerous path that leads straight into the blazing heart of the inferno. She knows where, and what, and how, knows exactly how to make him dance to her tune – and that too is _her_ shame, not his.

"Enough!" Boyd roars at her, dark eyes flashing a warning she's never going to heed.

 _This_ is Grace's secret shame. That she deliberately ignores his warning and calculatingly drives another exquisite barb home into one of the carefully selected places where his skin is thin and his defences are almost non-existent. Exactly as predicted, he rears up at her, wounded and angry, and in return she coolly strikes again and again, driving accurately at all the weak spots in his armour, pushing him further and further towards the invisible line that they both know is the absolute limit of his tolerance. Time and experience have given her an uncanny ability to discern his most sensitive places at any given moment, and she hits them repeatedly and precisely, quite consciously manoeuvring him with cruel precision until Boyd burns with such white-hot fury that he steps blindly towards the waiting crucible, the fiery, molten place where they will meet and be subsumed.

He thinks it's _him_ , and that's Grace's shame, too; that she lets him believe it's entirely _his_ weakness and _his_ lack of self-control that dictates where they will inevitably end up on nights like this. Caught in the formidable trap of her quiet mendacity, he remains desperately naïve, either unwilling or unable to see what she so blatantly does to him when she is furious, desperate and needy; she hates herself for it… and does it anyway because there is something in him that perpetually calls forth both the best and worst in her.

Perhaps absolution will come later, when he is gentle and bemused and sated, and if it does, for a while Grace will honestly believe that she has the strength and integrity not to do this again, not to make the choice to abuse her piercing knowledge of him, and for that perilously short while she will feel better.

But whatever she tries to tell herself in the interim, there _will_ be a next time. There always is.

The rage in him is too compelling, the consequences of it too addictive.

Peter Boyd is the jagged edge she fears, the dangerous precipice she doesn't dare walk. He is all the hazardous places she surveys with greed and envy and is too frightened approach. He is the dark part of her that aches to be selfish and feral, the part that hates the conventions and constraints of society's artificial constructs. He has the capacity to be what she doesn't dare to be, doesn't even really ever want to be – but covets nonetheless.

Grace drives the very last barb home, twisting it deep into his unprotected flank, and she feels the agonised howl of pain that he stubbornly doesn't give voice to. Feels it tear deep into her own heart and soul. This is the moment, the one tiny, fragile moment when she could fall to her knees and cry out for forgiveness, but before she can even think, let alone do, the opportunity is lost in the oncoming storm that engulfs her.

 _This_ is why she does it. This is what she knowingly sells her soul for – the primitive fury that makes Boyd shake off his self-imposed shackles and charge headlong at all the barriers that exist between them.

He seizes hold of her, and Graces knows that if he'd been forged in a different furnace he would assuredly strike her instead – not verbally, but physically, with the full weight of his fists. It's not Boyd's way, not with women, at least. And certainly not with _her_. With her his anger and frustration often finds a very different outlet, and that's why when she's every bit as furious as he is she so often can't stop herself from deliberately pushing him down this hazardous road. No, it's not his fists Boyd deploys in retaliation, it's his mouth. The first angry kiss comes with all the bruising force that Grace expects. The answering shiver of fear and anticipation that runs up and down her spine is glorious and she revels in it. Later, there will undoubtedly be penitence and despair. Later she may once again question why she can't stop herself from savagely wanting a man apparently so dysfunctional that he has to be pushed beyond all endurance before he will reach for her. But not yet.

What Boyd goes to take by force, Grace gives willingly, forcing her tongue into his mouth, twisting her fingers roughly into his hair. Pain and pleasure, instinct and desire. No questions, no answers, just the ferocious heat of his body and the dawning consequences of her actions…

-oOo-

He hates himself for it. Afterwards. He always does. Despises himself for his weakness, his lack of self-control. For reinforcing every low opinion she has of him. The first time it happened, Boyd was left confused and desolate in the aftermath; a troubled man trying to apologise for things he didn't understand. He told himself it would never happen again – that he had too much respect for her to… do what he did… again. He almost believed himself capable of abiding by every silent promise he made to himself, too, until the next time they were alone and the anger she kept fuelling started to burn him up from the inside.

There are pens and pencils and papers and all manner of other desktop items on the floor. Swept away without thought or care in the desperate heat and need of the moment.

It's his fault. All his fault.

His fault for not being able to walk away from an argument; his fault for letting her get so far under his skin. His fault for needing to be right, for being so stubborn in his implacable determination to always have the very last word. His fault for having so little ability to defend himself from her accusations without losing his temper.

It's become… toxic. Their spiky, difficult professional relationship. Hasn't always been that way.

Nothing's been right since –

Boyd shuts the thought out before it can take hold. Doesn't want to think about the tragic losses that tore the heart out of what was once a close and reasonably happy team. Doesn't want to think about Mel's broken body, or Frankie's haunted, accusing looks.

The first time… this… happened, it wasn't much over a year since those numb, lost, empty days. The days when everyone looked hollow, and whispered conversations and furtive glances replaced squad room camaraderie.

Grace is fully dressed now, barely a hair out of place. Is ready to walk away from him without a backward glance. _Again_.

He hates it. And _her_.

They used to be friends. Used to simply shrug off the worst of the irritations that set them against each other, but time seems to have thinned their skins, reduced their ability to tolerate each other's flaws and foibles. Made them both more spiteful and critical, too.

On nights like this he fucks her because it's the only way he knows to release the dangerous build-up of aggression and tension without causing either of them any real, lasting damage. He fucks her because nothing else stops her incessant sniping and gibing, and every time he does it, he hates himself just a little bit more.

If they were different people…

They're not. They are weak, wounded, lonely people who can't break out of the bitter symbiotic cycle that just keeps binding them ever-tighter together as they simultaneously manage to hurt each other more and more. Boyd understands it on a purely instinctive level, not on an academic one. He doesn't have Grace's way with words, nor her intuitive understanding of how the human mind works, but he doesn't need either to predict that a terrifying, devastating storm is coming. Not today and not tomorrow, but soon.

He stands up, his shirt still hanging loose and unbuttoned, and he sees the nervous way her gaze flicks towards him. She fears him. On some primitive level, despite all her strength and spite, she fears him. It brings him no pleasure whatsoever. Rather, it hurts him even more than her clever, vicious words. He paces towards her, maintaining his silence. Grace doesn't give ground, doesn't attempt to flee. Too much pride.

He kisses her as gently as he knows how. A subtle kind of revenge. It hurts her in return – he can see it in her intense blue eyes.

Love, hate, it's all the bloody same in the end. Fight and fuck, tear each other apart, then mouth empty apologies that mean nothing. A terrible private war that shows no sign of ending.

She's under his skin; he's deep in her heart. He knows it's true.

 _She_ does this to him. He doesn't know why, isn't even sure he cares.

They won't even say goodnight to each other, not today. They'll part in stinging silence, go their own separate ways, and tomorrow they'll do their best to put it all behind them and make another fresh start, both of them making solemn promises to themselves that will founder the next time blood is drawn late at night with no-one to stand between them.

This is Boyd's shame. That he can't walk away from it, or from her. That he can't stop himself from reaching out to her in his pain and fury.

Grace leaves his office without a single word, her head held high and her slim shoulders set. He thinks she might make it to her car before she weeps. Because she will.

He might, too. But not yet and certainly not _here_.

Moving like an automaton, Boyd moves back towards his desk and silently begins to pick up the bits and pieces scattered on the floor. It's all wreckage, what the two of them leave behind on nights like this.

 _\- the end -_


End file.
